Paper Cranes
by itsu-sual
Summary: A collection of short Hinabn fics and drabbles. Various pairings and ratings for each.
1. Paper Cranes

**Paper Cranes  
**

**Pairings: **Hanna/...**  
Warnings:** None, I guess?**  
**

This is set at the beginning of chapter 3 of HiNaBN.  
I hope this isn't too OOC. Someone had to do it, damn it. The scene was so damn fluffy all on its own. Also; COMMAS, EVERYWHERE.  
Also, I may use this fic as my dump-all-my-HiNaBN-fics-place, for any future ones I may do. The others can stay where they are though.

* * *

It's made of cheap, thin paper, the kind you buy in bulk for only a couple of dollars, but with a few folds and a simple gesture, it's suddenly the most important possession he has. He reaches out and picks the paper crane up the way one would hold a piece of antique china, cupping it gently with both gloved, trembling hands.

Hanna's already starting another one. Some distant part of his mind instructs him to remind the redhead exactly what time of night it is, make the living man go back to sleep, but he's frozen, just staring at the small piece of paper in his hands - identical to the one Hanna sent him as a guide. Something he'd been perfectly ready to accept as meaningless and forgotten like the rest of him sits in his palm, sentimental again, trusted and safe. He half-hears Hanna mention something about numbering them, the click of a marker cap and the squeak of a scrawled '2', then a rustle of paper and a fwp-fwp-fwp.

He raises his eyes to stare at Hanna in awe, only now noticing that the smaller man is humming softly to himself with a smile, and in the deafening silence of the night it sounds like a lullaby.

"You want to try making one?" Hanna asks merrily, looking up from the third crane to beam at his undead companion – face falling when he sees the expression on the zombie's face. It's about as far away from neutral as he can get. He looks…vulnerable. Like he's afraid and hopeful and sad and happy all at the same time.

"…Antonius…?"

The name is enough to knock him out of his stupor.

He didn't know he could move so fast – neither did Hanna, judging by the surprised "gnhh!" he lets out when the dead man throws his arms around the living man and _clings_, the force of it enough to knock both of them back down onto the mattress. Hanna lies in stunned silence for a moment, before he realizes that the dead man on top of him is shaking, holding onto him like his (after)life depends on it.

"Antonius?" the smaller man asks again, soft and gentle. The zombie lets out the barest of noises – more a breath of air than anything else – and Hanna pries free a hand from the dead man's grasp to run his knuckles down his back soothingly.

It took ten years. Ten years of sitting on his grave, just thinking and waiting. Watching cemetery visitors leave flowers for loved ones long dead, wondering why nobody ever came for him (did they even know that he died?). Ten years of wandering the city, looking for something, anything, to fill a hole in his heart he couldn't quite place. Ten years to forget how to smile, how to cry, how to laugh. Ten years to accept that he would never live again, never love or be loved again.

And Hanna undid it all with two minutes and a paper crane.

He wants to say something to Hanna. "Thank you", maybe, but those two words could never be enough for all the young man has done for him. Part of him wants to say "please don't go", "please don't leave me", and he has no logical explanation as to why, because this _is_ Hanna's house after all, and the redhead has never made any mention of disappearing. He wants to tell him how grateful he is, how much the crane means to him – how much _Hanna_ means to him - and he tries a few times to let words form on his tongue, but they choke in his throat and the scar that lines his neck twinges with the effort. Hanna gets his other arm free, wrapping them around his shoulders and nosing into dark hair.

"It's okay," Hanna murmurs, and he hears himself make some pathetic noise, a high-pitched moan maybe, in reply. "It's okay…you don't have to say anything." He buries his face further into the warm chest below him, squeezing his eyes shut while a shudder rattles through his corpse.

They stay that way for a long time – long enough that he hears one of the neighbours start to move around and get ready for work through the paper-thin walls – Hanna's hands rubbing his shoulder blades in slow circles while he just breathes in, focusing solely on the smell of Hanna, nose pressed up against his shirt. The rhythm of warm hands up and down his back calms him, the steady thud-thud of Hanna's heartbeat lulls him; he feels himself slipping, as if he might fall asleep (though he knows he won't. Can't).

Eventually he feels his emotions settle, long-practiced calm washing over him and a peace he hasn't felt since…since he was alive, probably. Hanna feels it too, he knows, because the living man has started to hum again, fingers shifting to play with white shocks of hair.

"What should we wish for?" Hanna whispers. It takes a while for the words to register.

He lifts his head up just enough to be heard. "Whatever you like."

"Don't be silly, Claudius," chastises Hanna playfully, "the cranes are meant for _you_, not me."

"We'll share it then," he answers quietly. "We'll keep it for something important."

The living man ponders this for a moment, running his hands through the zombie's hair absently. "Okay," Hanna grins at length, "it's gonna take a while to make a thousand of those things anyway, huh? We gotta think of something really-super-awesome to wish for…"

He lets Hanna ramble on for a while without interruption; the redhead is starting to sound tired now, and he doesn't want to keep him up. He catches something about never-ending chocolate fountains and rollercoasters and all-you-can-eat buffets always, the words becoming less and less distinct (he's not sure if that's just Hanna falling asleep, or his mind wandering further away from the moment – maybe both).

It doesn't matter. The only thing he would wish for himself is lying underneath him, warm and sleepy, a million paper cranes condensed into a single person, and anything else he could think of would probably be for Hanna's benefit. The room is silent save for the sound of light breathing, and he reaches up with one hand to pluck the glasses from Hanna's face and place them by the bed before settling back against the small man's chest.

His consciousness shrinks until all he knows is Hanna's heartbeat and the vague feeling that his wish has already been granted.


	2. Reverse

**Reverse  
**

**Pairings: **Zombie!Hanna/Alive!...**  
Warnings:** None**  
**

This is totally, shamelessly inspired by all the other AU fics and fanart for this.  
SORRY GUYS. I'm unoriginal. But...it's so d'awww. Also bonus Vampire!Worth dropped in here. Would Veser be a werewolf and Toni be a selkie then?

* * *

"What kinda detective can't find his own goddamn name?"

He remembers this sentence, in the place between sleep and waking up, and with it the sneering face of a blonde, pale man, one sharp tooth poking over dry lips. What was the vampire's name…Worth, maybe? Hanna had so many strange acquaintances. The dead man seems to collect them wherever he goes (but he couldn't blame them; he'd fallen under Hanna's spell just as quickly, and ten years was plenty of time to stumble upon odd people) …Hanna. Hanna? Yes, then, after the sentence – blue, glowing eyes, round and bright, flicking upwards to stare intently at Worth.

"The kind with very thorough attackers," Hanna answered softly, in the same, monotonous voice he always uses. He hadn't really expected the zombie to defend him – the reply comes almost out of nowhere. But Hanna's been dead a long time, and surely with those zig-zag scars ripping across his torso, he's thought an awful lot about thorough attackers. But, he supposes, the green boy hit the nail on the head; he woke up from a coma with more scars than even Hanna, with no name, no family, no identity, no records, no nothing. And that, he is sure, took some pretty hard work.

His eyes crack open slightly, the memory of Worth's sneering face and Hanna's serious eyes slipping away to reveal the crummy walls of his miserable apartment. Blue light shifts and reflects around the cracks, and it takes him a moment to remember that Hanna's eyes glow. He sighs, twisting in blankets to fumble for his watch (3AM) and stare at the zombie through heavy eyelids.

The young man, frozen forever as eighteen years old, sits with his back towards the mattress tonight. He shuffles and twitches, eyes darting about the place, light shifting as he does so. Never still, even in death, the living man thinks fondly, and still half-asleep, he starts to wonder if Hanna was one of those people with ADHD or tourettes or something. Maybe he just died during a sugar rush…he's not entirely sure how the whole zombie thing works, honestly.

He's on the edge of falling back asleep when light catches his eye – pink light bouncing off the walls, and a tiny hiss of triumph escapes from Hanna. It takes him a moment to figure out if he's already dreaming, before a green light brightens the room for just a moment, and _this_ time his eyes are wide open.

"Hanna?" he calls, rubbing at his face.

Big, blue eyes turn to stare at him through thick lenses (does he really still need those glasses?), and though Hanna's face is as inexpressive as ever, his eyes seem to be lit with happiness. "I'm sorry I woke you, Holmes," he intones, turning to face the living man properly. It must be something important, if Hanna has gone back to picking detective names for him – he's usually a little more imaginative than that.

"I saw a light," the taller man mumbles, sitting up. "You're not playing with matches or something, are you? 'Cause the landlady would _kill_ me if-"

"No matches," Hanna interrupts – and the zombie _never _interrupts. The living man takes this as a sign of excitement. The boy scurries closer, huddling up on the mattress uninvited. He's holding a marker pen with his other hand spread wide, palm upwards. "Look."

Hanna scrawls an intricate something on his palm, eyes a little wider than usual, if possible. He stares down at the green hand, covered in tiny stitches and scars, and for a moment, nothing happens…then, slowly, a plume of purple smoke begins to rise from the lines of the drawing, growing brighter until it lights up the two of them. Hanna smiles imperceptibly, the most minute quirk of the corner of his lips, and Holmes has learnt by now that it's the closest thing to laughter the dead man has. The glow fades, as do the black marks on Hanna's hand, and eyes are rolling upwards to stare at him expectantly.

What on earth do you say to that?

"Is this…a zombie thing?" he asks cautiously, taking Hanna's hand to inspect where the black marks have completely disappeared.

Hanna shakes his head. "I remember this," he explains impassively, while his eyes glitter a shade brighter than usual. "It didn't work for a while. I thought maybe dead people couldn't do it."

"But what is it?" the living man demands, taking the pen to make sure it's not some sort of trick – ever the detective.

"Magic," Hanna says simply. The dark-haired man gives him a sceptical look. "Real magic, Houdini." (He's not entirely sure, but with the name and the wicked glint in his glowing eyes, he thinks Hanna might be mocking him).

"Teach me?" he asks – and instantly regrets it when Hanna shrinks away, scuffling off the mattress and holding the magic marker close. The zombie shakes his head, red curls bobbing back and forth. "I…I'm sorry! I didn't mean to…maybe it was special to you in life, or-"

"No," Hanna interrupts for the second time that night, eyes dimming unhappily. "Magic is…bad for you. But," his mouth twists grimly as he gestures to himself, "it doesn't matter so much now."

The living man stares at Hanna for a moment, and while the green face is blank, his dim eyes betray a misery that makes his own chest ache. He wonders if magic was the cause of death (because god knows he can't figure out what made that gaping hole, haphazardly stapled together, in Hanna's scrawny torso). The dead man clutches the magic marker to himself, and he can't help feeling that he's reminded the boy of something awful, painful, said something a step too far – so he simply opens his arms out in invitation and waits.

Hanna peers at him from over the top of his glasses, eyes brightening again, and for someone that can hardly show emotion, he sure likes hugs. In a second he's burrowing against the dark-haired man's pyjamas, pressing himself close like a cat. The zombie is cold, but still, he likes the feeling of Hanna in his arms, the feeling that the small man is safe. He tugs the zombie down with him as he falls back against the pillow, adjusting the blanket to cover both of them.

"Stay here tonight," he says softly, and the tiny smile Hanna gives him is all the answer he needs.


	3. Nicotine

**Nicotine  
**

**Pairings: **Conrad/Worth**  
Warnings:** Swearing**  
**

I don't actually smoke, so, uh, I may have got something wrong in some places.  
My first attempt at writing these two! I hope it's ok.

* * *

Marlboros remind him of his mother.

Conrad remembers thin, elegant hands, trembling as she fumbled for the pack. The glint of the lighter bouncing off her shiny red nails as she cursed, trying and failing a few times to light it. Long, shaky drags as she sat and puffed in her study, thinking nobody was watching her (she made so much noise clattering around for a cigarette – how could he not notice?). For all her lectures (never smoke, don't do drugs, shouldn't touch alcohol with all the medication you're on) it would always come back to the sight of his mother collapsed in her favourite chair, sighing in a haze of smoke. Always on those stressful days, where her neuroses would get the better of her and her problems could only be solved by tar and nicotine.

Benson & Hedges remind him of his grandfather – his dad's side, of course.

His grandfather and the disapproving glare that seemed to be perpetually etched into his wrinkly face. He was a big, burly man, even in his old age. Fought in World War 2, some role in Vietnam, stint as a wrestler for a bit, sports champion back in school. His collection of mostly academic sons were a disappointment, to say the least – his first grandson (Conrad) even more so. Doctors, lawyers, scientists, at least there was some monetary merit in those jobs. When Conrad, aged five, announced to his grandpa that he was going to be an artist, the old man looked ready to disown him.

Lucky Seven reminds him of high school.

Of turning the corner of the bike shed one morning (he was excused – psychiatrist appointment) and bumping into a bunch of kids, sitting around smoking. He just wanted to get his bike, that was all. But prissy little Conrad, couldn't risk _him_ telling the teachers, couldn't risk getting found out, so they chased him halfway across the town before giving him a black eye, a split lip and a few teeth less. He stumbled into the psychiatrist's office three hours late. His mother insisted they move away, after that.

Then there are always roll-ups. Those remind him of art school.

Conrad tried a few, back then. Just to be cool, just to be hip, just to fit in. Those memories aren't so bad; he remembers sitting outside in the sun with friends, with like-minded people (_finally_), a few cans of beer now and then, bitching about that one tutor who seems to be out to kill them through workload alone. He never really _liked_ smoking though, or the way cigarettes made him cough and the bitter feeling in his mouth. Even so, he can probably roll one up in his sleep.

And then…there's Worth.

Today he sits on the floor of the lean man's shabby office, moving from side to side of the room in a futile attempt to avoid roaches. Conrad misjudged the time horribly, and now it's morning and he's stuck in this shithole for another ten hours at the least. He's tired and cranky and he misses his king-size bed.

"Will ya sit still an' quit sighin'? _Christ_," Worth snaps from his desk, flinging a stapler at the vampire and narrowly missing his head. The older man glares back down at some complicated medical form he's working on (or forging, more likely). He slips out his fourth cigarette of the morning from his pocket, lighting it as if on autopilot. Worth's dark eyes never leave the paper in front of him.

Conrad stares at the white cylinder hanging from the Doctor's mouth and wonders absently what brand he smokes; it certainly doesn't smell like any he's used to. They're unfiltered, (disgusting, he thinks, just like the rest of Worth), and the packaging is blank. Probably supplied by Lamont, ordered from some shady dictator-run country. God only knows what's in the things.

He wants to hate them; after all, he hates the way the smoke gets in his nose, makes him need to sneeze. Hates the way the smell clings to his clothes. Hates the way they make his eyes water. But then again, he wants to hate Worth, too. Can't quite bring himself to, though he knows he should. Instead, the smell is comforting, in a way smoke has never been to him before. They make him think of the taste of Worth's tongue, of pressing his face into the fur trim of his lab-coat and breathing in the stale scent. They remind him of yellowed nails digging into his pale skin, of dull eyes and piercing stares. They remind him of blood, of feeling sated and full and lazy and content – because that's what inevitably follows with Worth, as addictive as his damned smokes.

The vampire watches as the smoke leaves thin trails around Worth's face, making hypnotic little shapes in the air before spreading about the room. He's starting to feel sleepy, nocturnal instincts catching up with him, and, ignoring the paranoid voices of reason clamouring for attention in his head, he crawls underneath Worth's desk and places his head on the Doctor's bony lap.

"The fuck're ya…" growls Worth, peering down when he feels Conrad shifting against him. "I told'ya, I'm tryin' to do some fuckin' work here. Didn't ya have enough last night? I swear t'god, you fuckin' vampires're never satisfi-"

He cuts himself off when he realizes Conrad is snoring.


	4. Sure is Something

**Sure is Something  
**

**Pairings: **Conrad/Worth**  
Warnings:** Swearing, post-smut (because I fail at writing the real deal)**  
**

Thank you so much to everyone who has left me reviews! They make me so happy~  
In response to a prompt on the kink meme. Not entirely sure about this one, but I hope the prompter likes it at least.

* * *

Conrad doesn't wake up, exactly – he hadn't even been asleep – but suddenly the dizzy, post-orgasmic haze he'd been floating in fades, and the world comes back into focus and everything is painfully, horribly clear.

He's tangled up on Worth's bed (if you can even call it that; it was a mattress at one point, but now it's mostly just a collection of moth-eaten blankets and pillows) with the Doctor curled around him, scarred arms cradling the vampire to a skinny chest. He's feeling sore and achy in places he'd rather not discuss, and there's a dull throbbing in his left shoulder where Worth bit him. Hard.

The vampire peers blearily about the room, glad for once not to be wearing his glasses. He probably doesn't _really_ need to see in detail just how disgusting the room actually is, and he probably doesn't want to know what the big, brown stain on the wall consists of, visible even through his blurry eyesight. There's movement in the corner of his eye – something black and creepy and crawly – and he grudgingly shuffles a little closer to Worth's chest because god, he hates cockroaches. The Doctor stirs a little, grumbling in his sleep, before settling his sharp chin against Conrad's forehead.

It's weird. So weird that Conrad isn't really sure what to think at all. Instead, he wonders what his mother would think if she could see her son, snuggled up with a quack in a shithole on the wrong side of town. He knows exactly what face she would make; the same horrified grimace she had when he brought home a toad in second grade. No doubt she'd assume he was as much of an addict as Worth and pack him off to rehab. And maybe Conrad really _is_ an addict – he keeps coming back here for more, after all.

But tonight is different. Worth is holding him possessively – he's not naïve enough to think the man's holding him in any sort of loving way - freakishly long legs looped around his, keeping him in place. Most nights, the older man rolls onto his back, lights a cigarette, and falls asleep on one side of the bed, Conrad on the other, as if there's some invisible post-sex dividing line. But…held in place like this, as if what they do _means_ something more…it's nice. Makes him push his face up against Worth's neck, breathing in the unwashed, smoky smell of his skin. He imagines he probably wouldn't be able to stand being this close to the Doctor if it weren't for the lovely, heady scent of blood pulsing just underneath, overpowering whatever nasty smell keeps everyone a good five feet away from Worth.

The blonde man growls something under his breath, still asleep, digging his fingers into Conrad's torso, and for just a moment, the vampire feels as if maybe, Worth might actually care about him in his own screwed up way.

"Do…you love me?" he whispers out loud without thinking.

"Yeah. N' lollipops and rainbows, and fuckin' Care Bears, too," growls Worth above him, voice heavy with sleep.

Conrad flinches. He tries to pull away, stuttering. "H…how long have you…wh…"

"Gngh…fuckin'…_stay_," Worth snarls, eyes still closed, pulling him back with a rough tug that presses Conrad's face up against his chest. "Wasn't sleepin', y' moron. Was _about_ to, 'til y' woke me back up."

If he could still blush, Conrad is pretty sure he would be red right now. As it is, he can still experience the feeling of wanting a hole to swallow him up…not that Worth's death grip on him is easing anytime soon, it seems, as the Doctor readjusts them to get Conrad into perfect headrest position. So instead, Conrad just squeezes his eyes shut and prays that Worth forgets about it by morning. The taller man sighs contentedly above him, breathing evening out once more, and the vampire thinks he's _almost _got away with it when-

"Y' really wan' me to answer?" Worth rasps, not sounding terribly awake.

"_No_," groans Conrad miserably. "Forget it. Just forget it."

He knows the answer anyway. And somehow…now that he actually stops to think…he's okay with it. With the fact that Worth will never love him – not like a _normal_ person, at least. No flowers, or chocolate, or romantic dinners. That's not really what he wants. What Conrad wants is…well, _this_. To be needed, to be wanted. To be able to scream and shout and bite and scratch at Worth, and then curl up together afterwards in their own twisted little bliss. To let go completely, and for it to be okay.

Conrad grins, pulling away to look up at the blonde. "It's not love," he says. "But it sure is something."

That gets a laugh out of Worth, deep and smoky, earning the vampire an (almost) affectionate kiss on the lips which Conrad is quite happy to ruin with his teeth.


	5. The Other Side

**The Other Side  
**

**Pairings: **Hanna/...**  
Warnings:** Character death, angst (but also fluff!)**  
**

Ok so before you come at me in an angry mob with pitchforks....read to the end! It's happy, I promise!  
This is set four years in the future of the comic. Probably a AU sort of thing, I guess.

* * *

In his deepest, darkest fears, he'd always imagined being unable to protect Hanna from some sort of gruesome, supernatural death, of the redhead being torn away from him right in front of his eyes, of Hanna's hand _just_ slipping out of his grasp. Of having to watch his dearest friend mauled and maimed alive.

But this. God, he really doesn't know what to feel about this.

He unlocks the door to their apartment for the first time since…well. Since Hanna died. He just stands and stares inside the tiny, single room, almost afraid to walk inside. This is the place where Hanna's life ended; who would have thought? The one place where he was sure the redhead was safe. Protected. Where the only thing he _really_ had to worry about was the dodgy electrical wiring and Hanna falling over and smashing his head in the tiny, slippery bathroom.

Slowly, he walks in, peering around. It feels different now. Not…lifeless, exactly. No, Hanna was so full of life, he could never remember it as anything but home, warm and energetic. The mattress is still dipped down in the shape of a small, skinny body, the covers thrown back from…from that night. The zombie shudders, the movement rattling him right to his bones. A sigh escapes him, long and painful, and he collapses down to his knees next to the mattress.

Guilt.

_That's_ what he feels. For not realizing that Hanna had stopped breathing sooner. If he'd noticed just a minute earlier, just a few seconds even, would Worth have been able to revive him? No, probably not, he reasons – the Doctor said as much. Whatever it was that was keeping Hanna alive, whatever it was that allowed him to survive after those awful gashes lining his stomach, whatever it was that made Hanna puke blood after using too-strong magic, it just gave up. Hanna's luck ran out; that was all.

There was nothing he could have done. And that, perhaps, is even worse than Hanna being killed on one of their misadventures. The dead man groans, letting himself fall forward onto the blankets, breathing in the smell of the small man. He should be grateful, he knows. Hanna died peacefully – nothing like his own bloody, violent death. Even more grateful for the last, sleepy words that ever left the young man's lips – "You know I love you, right?"

That makes his chest clench painfully. Makes him wonder if Hanna knew his end was coming. Makes him wish he'd held Hanna just a bit tighter, wish he'd kissed Hanna just a bit harder. Makes him remember the sounds of Toni and Veser sobbing, Conrad's unneeded breath coming in ragged bursts, the weightlessness of Hanna's still body in his arms, the bark of Worth's hoarse voice as he herds the others away from them.

Hanna gave him a rune for this, once – pressed a piece of paper into his palm with a sad smile, told him "y'know, just in case". He kept it in between his autopsy scars and hoped he'd never have to use it. Maybe they should have tested it first. Or maybe Hanna knew it wouldn't bring him back to life. He scribbled it over Hanna's heart anyway, ignored the protests from the others, and waited for Hanna to breathe again.

He didn't.

The dead man sits up when he hears the sound of footsteps tapping up the stairs.

"Man, you are so lucky that you got to decompose all by yourself. This stuff tastes _so_ gross, you don't even understand!" says a familiar voice, and he watches blue light glint off a bottle of embalming solution, held by faintly green hands. "Trust Worth to give me the nasty stuff."

Well.

He didn't start _breathing_ again, but…

"You okay?" Hanna asks, his new, glowing eyes settling on the orange ones across the room.

The older zombie just shakes his head with disbelief. Hanna comes back from the dead, and asks _him_ if he's okay. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

Hanna smiles – not one of his face-splitting grins, but one of those honestly affectionate ones that he was so afraid he'd never see again – and skips over to the mattress to throw his arms around the (original) zombie, squeezing tight.

The redhead isn't warm anymore, but he feels the same in his arms, probably about the same weight as a slice of toast. He absently admires the light green that Hanna's skin has turned, holding a darker hand up against it to compare. With a light tug, the two fall back against the mattress, the recently undead's laughter muffled against an orange shirt. The noise is soothing – and really, he thinks, it could have been a whole lot worse. Hanna _could_ have died a messy and gruesome death, and he would have brought back a mangled corpse instead of a relatively intact (and very snuggly) twenty-eight year old. Hanna could have suffered the same fate he did – forgotten everything – and how awful would that have been, to be reunited with the person you love most and for them to have no recollection of you?

_Definitely_ could have been worse.

He sucks at Hanna's neck, desperate in the back of his mind to reacquaint himself with the person two days dead wriggling around on top of him. The redhead makes a keening noise, arching into the touch, and though neither needs sleep now, they won't be leaving the bed any time soon.


	6. Mother Hen

**Mother Hen  
**

**Pairings: **Hanna/..., mentioned Conrad/Worth**  
Warnings:** Swearing**  
**

Sort of short and pointless? I just love the idea of Worth as Hanna's stand-in mother XD

* * *

"You know," Hanna begins, looking up at his companion while they wait for the bartender to serve up the next round of drinks, "those things that Conrad always orders are actually pretty good. What d'you think is in them?"

The zombie just shrugs, watching the redhead's fingers drumming against the counter. Hanna keeps looking back at the table in the far corner, worried their friends will get impatient. "We can find out," he says eventually. "I could try making them for you."

_That_ gets Hanna's full attention. The smaller man's eyes snap upwards to meet his.

"…Really?" Hanna presses, face a mix of blind adoration and barely contained glee. It's cute. The way the young man leans in towards him unconsciously, the way his eyes widen further than should be possible…

The dead man leans down to plant a quick kiss on warm lips. "Really," he says, mouth twitching into the barest of smiles as he watches Hanna's cheeks turn a shade of pink that clashes horribly with red hair. Then the drinks come, and Hanna almost spills Lamont's beer.

The zombie takes the rest, and when he turns to walk back to their table, Worth is glaring at him with the darkest scowl he has ever seen.

* * *

"Where th' fuck is my whiskey?" demands Worth, smacking his second empty glass down on the table. The doctor tips his head backwards to see what's taking Hanna and sidekick so damn long –

- only to be greeted with the sight of the dead man leaning down to kiss his patient. It's quick and chaste (no teeth, no tongues, what the fuck kind of kiss is that), but long enough for Hanna to kiss back. The zombie pulls away, says something that makes Hanna turn red, smiling down at the young man (huh, who knew? Frankenstein's monster _can_ make expressions). Worth realizes he's scowling, lip curling back to bare his teeth, and his dark eyes meet with bright orange ones.

"_Toucey_," he snaps, digging a sharp elbow into Lamont's side. The delivery man yelps – Worth is bony enough for it to feel like a damn knife. "Smokin' break. _Now_."

"The _fuck_ is your problem?" Lamont grumbles at him, rubbing his side. "I'm talking to Toni, go smoke by yourself."

Worth just glares at him, and…oh. Lamont knows _that_ look. The "I'm not joking you prick" face. He sighs irritably, and excuses himself to Toni, but she doesn't mind because Hanna and employee are back with the drinks now. The Doctor growls out a curse under his breath at the zombie as he stands to leave, snatching up his whiskey without a word to storm outside, Lamont in tow.

The two emerge into the cold night air, Worth digging out his cigarette and lighter with one hand, downing his whiskey in one go with the other.

"You better be sharing," Lamont says, holding out a hand for the pack. "Dragged me out here…it's _cold_, you know."

"Shuddup," grunts Worth, lighting his own cigarette before throwing them at the shorter man. He takes a few angry puffs from the white cylinder before leaning back against the wall. "Gonna fuckin' kill 'im," he snarls. Pauses for a moment. "…Again."

"Who?" Lamont asks. "Conrad? What's he done now? You two were getting along just fine in there-"

"_Not the fuckin' vampire_," Worth hisses, jabbing a long finger in Lamont's direction. "The _zombie_."

The delivery man blinks. "What?"

"He kissed Hanna," Worth says darkly. "Dead man ain't got no business kissin' the kid like that."

Lamont rolls his eyes. "Really, Worth. Are you being _jealous_? Hanna's a little young for you, isn't he? And I thought you and Conrad-"

"Shut up about the fuckin' vampire!" Worth yells, and the whiskey glass drops from his hand, smashing against the ground. "…Shit. Look what you- fuck you, I ain't jealous! S'just…"

"Ah!" Lamont says, sudden understanding lighting up his features. "I get it. Careful now, Worth. You're letting your caring side slip."

"Piss off," he grumbles, poking at the shards of glass with the tip of his shoe.

"Mother hen," teases Lamont, grinning.

"If I'm the kid's mother, that makes _you_ the father," Worth grunts.

"Hell no, no son of mine is turning out like Hanna. He's a good kid, but he's a damn idiot. And hey, that still makes you the woman," Lamont snickers. "But…the zombie seems nice, you know?"

"Kid deserves better," the doctor snaps back. "Someone livin', at least."

"Nobody's ever gonna be deserving enough in your eyes. You know that, right?" Lamont says plainly – then grins. "Besides. I don't think you're in a position to talk about dead partners."

"What part o' 'shut up about the fuckin' vampire' didja miss?!" Worth roars, throwing a fist towards the stocky man. Lamont dodges – _just_ – before swinging a punch of his own, connecting with Worth's stomach. The doctor collapses backwards with a pained "_Oof_!"

"Whatever," Lamont smirks, shaking his hand out. "Leave the kid and his pet zombie alone, yeah? The guy takes good care of Hanna. And god knows the kid deserves some happiness." He stubs out his cigarette against the wall, turning to hurry back into the bar, leaving Worth to finish his smoke.

* * *

Somehow he ended up agreeing to give Hanna a piggyback ride home. He's glad the redhead weighs next to nothing – he's sure his stitches would break on a daily basis otherwise. And besides, the young man is more than a bit tipsy, and with the way he was swaying, he's not even sure Hanna could have walked home on his own. He can feel Hanna humming something into his shoulders – some corny love song that Veser was belting out in the bar – swinging his legs now and then.

"Hanna?" he asks, the humming pausing long enough for the redhead to make a questioning noise against his neck. "Does Worth…like you?"

"I guess…" Hanna shrugs. "He wouldn't fix me when I get hurt otherwise, you know?"

"No," the dead man corrects, "I meant, does he like you like I like you?"

"HAH! Oh, you're _funny_, Copernicus! Ewww. No. Definitely no," the redhead giggles into his coat. "I'm totally not his type anyway. I'm too nice."

"Modest, too," teases the zombie, but with his usual deadpan tone and the number of drinks consumed that evening, Hanna is too drunk to get it.

"But he looks out for me, y'know?" Hanna mumbles sleepily into his neck. "Like you do. But more like…like a mom or something." The dead man makes a noise of agreement, pondering over the dark looks Worth kept shooting him that evening. Like a mom, huh…?

He can't help but chuckle at the thought of Worth as his mother-in-law.


End file.
